Hindsight

 

Everyone wants to know what happened to Haylee. One day she was here, and the next she wasn't. It's easy to blame me. I was her best friend. I should have seen this coming. And I get that. Believe me, I do.

But here's the thing you have to understand. Haylee never used the word suicide. She never told me she wanted to die. Not once.

Except.

There was one thing she used to say, when things were getting better. After the days of hiding her face, she'd throw her arms open to the sky and spin round and round, like she'd just discovered the world and wanted to drink it all in.

She'd turn to me, then, her face glowing, and ask: "Will you miss me, when I make my exit?"

I thought she was talking about running away. She'd told me the story over and over, each time a little different. She was going to hitchhike down to LA and sleep with whichever directors she had to. When she was a famous movie star who got paid millions per picture, she'd retire to the stage, which was her one true love.

"I'll come with you," I used to tell her. "You'll need a manager." Even though what did I know about Hollywood? Nothing. And Haylee always gave me this sad look, which I thought meant she knew we'd never go. It's the only clue Haylee gave me, the only road sign for what was coming. So tell me, would you have understood what she meant? Would you have been able to stop her?

There was one more thing, three months ago. I'd walked over during the first rainstorm of fall. It was only sprinkling when I left my house, but in four short blocks, the rain pounded down on me, and I jogged the rest of the way with my hood stretched tight over my face, drawstring drawn, so that only my eyes and nose poked out. Haylee's mom let me in, and I shed my sopping hoodie in their entryway and pounded up the stairs in my squelching sneakers.

I knocked on Haylee's door, and when she didn't answer, I opened it.

I can still see her standing in front of the window of her room, screen cast aside on the floor, stretching her arms out, catching the thick drops of rain as they plunged out of her tree. She wore a pair of tight black leggings and a loose, gauzy pink shirt that blew backward in the wind, entangled in her lace curtains. Her long, blond hair was divided into two spiral braids that twisted down her back. She spun around, holding her wet arms out for me to see, and her braids hit the window frame with two smacks.

I stood in her doorway, unsure if I should step in or out. Hurricane Haylee could blow stronger than the wind, pound harder than the rain, and I couldn't tell if it was coming or going.

But she smiled, though her eyes and cheeks were as red and puffy as the new scratches on her arms, though the old ones had faded to scattered shades of pink and white.

I knew where she got those. Everyone knew about that.

She turned her wet wrists so droplets drizzled onto the white carpet.

One of them was tinged pink.

"Amazing," Haylee said. She turned back to the window, watching the branches outside bowing in the wind. "I'm going to miss this."

And like an idiot, I thought she was talking about the tree.